


H

by Deastrumquodvicis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-10
Updated: 2012-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-30 21:59:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deastrumquodvicis/pseuds/Deastrumquodvicis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's life is hard following his supposed death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	H

_Alone protects me_ , he’d said.  _Now I have alone again_.

He walked away from his own gravesite, vacant inside at John’s words that he could only half-hear.  He could read the grief in John’s posture, the brokenness in John’s desperate touch on the headstone bearing the name of his best friend.  Sherlock half-wished he were crying because then at least he’d know what to call the strange emotion he was feeling.

* * *

Three months later, he was in Hong Kong.  He’d taken up residence in a tiny little flat, the noise and lights making it even harder to sleep than it had been.  He looked in the mirror and realized how much of a wreck he looked.  Tired, haggard, thinner than ever before, and empty.  His eyes were empty.  Why?  He didn’t get to wonder about it further.  The sound of breaking glass punctuated his thoughts as a bullet smashed his mirror.  It was time to run.

* * *

He bandaged up his leg in Houston, another narrow miss from a gunshot, though this time not from a sniper’s rifle.  He was a really rubbish street criminal, he realized with a despairing smirk.  He winced as he stood, gingerly walking to the refrigerator.  Empty.  He took a small packet of instant noodles from above the sink and started to prepare them.  Yet again, the clang of a bullet nearly missing him rang out and he fled the building, stove still on, but no time to think.

* * *

Hamburg, Germany.  Sherlock shut the door behind him and brushed the snow off his coat.  He was tired of running, tired of hiding, but he knew that whoever was behind the sniper’s scope was out to make sure Sherlock died.  Why?  Why chase him around the world for something so petty?  Unless…unless it was revenge.  Something personal.  Sentiment.  This time, the bullet grazed his arm.  Whoever he was, he was getting closer and faster.  Time to move on.

* * *

He’d cut his hair quite short.  _John’s length_ , he thought painfully.  _Why does that hurt?_   The woman asked if that was alright and he nodded.  He’d bought himself an entirely new wardrobe, too.  It was uncomfortable, but he had to be someone different, someone other than himself.  And unfortunately, the only person on whom he thought to model his new persona, here in Hamilton, New Zealand, was John.  So he stood, staring at himself in the mirror of the fitting rooms, military haircut, trying on a jumper and again he felt that emptiness wash over him.  Loneliness perhaps, or grief.  Sherlock didn’t know.  But it was time to leave the country, as he couldn’t afford any more close calls.

* * *

There was a riot in the street.  Huambo was a violent place, but Sherlock was running out of ideas.  He’d kept to his newfound disguise, like living as John.  Every time he thought it, it hurt a little less, but it still hurt.  What must it be like for John, the protector who cared so much?  Just as hellish.  Worse.  John didn’t know he was still alive.  Sherlock had taken the persona of Robert Sigerson, a travel journalist trying to make his name in the industry.  A brick was thrown through his window, landing on his foot, and he decided that sniper or not, he shouldn’t be here.

* * *

On and on this went, three months in Honolulu, three months in Hassan, three months in Hanoi.  Sherlock was tired, constantly aching for something to take the pain away, even for a little while, but dared not risk the vulnerability.  Three whole years passed, jumping from city to city, trying to live as Sigerson but never feeling right, before he received a message from Mycroft telling him it was safe to come home.

* * *

Home.  The H-place he never thought he’d see again.  He should be resting in a hotel or at Mycroft’s.  He was exhausted and unrecognizable even to himself without looking really closely.  Mrs. Hudson told him that John would be in today.  He always came by once a month after that first year, sometimes to talk to the skull, sometimes to feebly scratch out notes on Sherlock’s violin, but always out of a sense of duty to remember his best friend.  Sherlock ascended the steps and already the familiar smells were lulling him into peace, like waking from a nightmare and having someone there to comfort you.

“I miss you so much,”  John’s voice was breaking and slightly slurred as if he’d been drinking.  “You were the best man I ever knew.  The best friend I ever had.  The brother I’d always wanted and now…it’s been three years, Sherlock.  Please tell me it’s not real.”  Sherlock pushed the door open.  By the most peculiar coincidence in the universe, their clothing matched, like twins who, though continents apart, keep the same interests.

“Hello, John.”  Sherlock observed that there was a tear on his own face and didn’t care to wipe it away.

“Sherl…sher…sh…”  John had fallen to the floor in a dead faint.  Sherlock placed him on the sofa and covered him with a blanket.

“I’m back,” he said, smiling.  “I’m home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Started out with the first three Hs quite coincidentally, then I decided to make it a theme.


End file.
